This Vicious Cabaret
by GoddessofSnark
Summary: Twenty years have passed since the fall of Voldemort. Twenty years have passed since magic was outlawed. Twenty years too many. Now is the time to stop merely acting in this vicious cabaret called life and to take charge and rewrite the script.
1. PrologueClick

A/N - So I'm finally getting around to posting my backlog on here. Took me long enough, I think. Enjoy.

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_Click. Click. Click. Click. One. Two. Three. Four. Right. Left. Right. Left. Run. Run. Run. Run. Do. Not. Stop. Click. Click. Click. Click. Go. Go. Past. Here. Right. Left. Right. Left. Click. Click. Click. Click. This. Place. Is. Not. Good. Click. Click. Click. Click. Run. Run. Run. Run. It. Is. Too. Dark. Click. Click. Click. Click. Right. Left. Right. Left. They. Will. Get. You. Click. Click. Click. Click._

The sound of boots on paving stone echoed throughout the night. It was dark. It was always dark. Night used to seem bright. The stars and the moon shined, once. On a cool night such as this one could go out and look at the stars. The owner of the boots paused for a second, breaking the perfect metronomic rhythm. A gaunt face looked up at the blank sky. Black, painted like a canvas. And he wondered where the world went wrong.

_Click. Click. Click. Click. One. Two. Three. Four. Left. Right. Left. Right. Walk. Walk. Walk. Walk. Must. Get. There. Click. Click. Click. Click. No. Time. To. Waste. Left. Right. Left. Right. Click. Click. Click. Click. This. Place. Is. Too. Full. Click. Click. Click. Click. Walk. Walk. Walk. Walk. It. Is. Too. Bright. Click. Click. Click. Click. Left. Right. Left. Right. It. Is. Too. Perfect. Click. Click. Click. Click._

The sound of high heels on sidewalk was almost lost in the mess of the day. It was bright. Obnoxiously bright, reflected off of windows and sidewalks. Cheerily bright. As if trying to blind all who dared walk in the mid-day sun. The owner of the heels paused for a second,, breaking the perfect, metronomic rhythm. A worn face looked in a shop window. Perfectly arranged. And she wondered where society went wrong.

_Click. Click. Click. Click. One. Two. Three. Four. Left. Right. Left. Right. March. March. March. March. Just. Keep. Going. Click. Click. Click. Click. Just. Blend. In. Right. Left. Right. Left. Click. Click. Click. Click. Be. The. Same. Click. Click. Click. Click. March. March. March. March. Do. What. They. Say. Click. Click. Click. Click. Right. Left. Right. Left. Be. One. Of. Them. Click. Click. Click. Click. _

The sound of a hundred feet hitting the ground in perfect unison echoed off the buildings. The sky was a perfect grey. No sun. No moon. Just grey. Perfect weather. One pair of feet paused for a minute, breaking the perfect metronomic rhythm. A young face looked at the men around him. Perfectly in step. And he wondered where his life went wrong.

_Click. Click. Click. Click. One. Two. Three. Four. Right. Left. Right. Left. Strut. Strut. Strut. Strut. Don't. Look. Down. Click. Click. Click. Click. They. Are. Worth. Less. Right. Left. Right. Left. Click. Click. Click. Click. Do. Not. Talk. Click. Click. Click. Click. Strut. Strut. Strut. Strut. They. Are. Scum. Click. Click. Click. Click. Right. Left. Right. Left. Be. A. Bove. Them. Click. Click. Click. Click. _

The sound of perfectly shined leather shoes was lost amidst the crowd. They reflected the pale artificial light that filtered down. No sun. No moon. Just florescent. The owner of the shoes paused, breaking the perfect metronomic rhythm. A pale face looked at the lights. Perfect ambiance. And he wondered where everything went wrong.


	2. Perhaps

The bar was old. Old wasn't quite the word for it. Rustic would probably be a preferred term for it. But he wasn't ever a fan of false pretenses. It was quaint. But it was at the end of his street. And it was cheap. And it got him sufficiently plastered every night. That was what mattered. Not if it was cute. Or charming. Or rustic. Or quaint.

There was something different tonight, though. He could feel it. The hair on the back of his neck was standing upright. No matter how many years it had been since his life was continuously on the line he was still acutely aware of things that were different. Things that could be dangerous. Things that could be deadly.

And there was something here that was out of place. His eyes darted around the small pub. The bar was the same as always. Old Joe was giving him his refill on his Glenfidditch, same as always. The Everton match was playing in the background, and they were loosing, same as usual. All of the old pictures were in there same places on the wall. No, it wasn't something different about the place, it was something different about the people.

He went through and looked at each one of them. There were the other usuals, like him, at the bar. There were the two hooligans who had come in to get drunk cheaper than at the match. There was the girl. There was Old Joe.

His eyes snapped back. The girl. He had never seen her before. But that couldn't be right. She had a familiar feel to her. Like he had met her before. He put down the glass of whiskey, and took a deep breath, pushing the beginnings of intoxication out of his mind for now, getting a good look in at the girl.

Average height. Average weight. Shoulder-length brown hair. Brown eyes. Early thirties. Possibly. He was always rubbish with ages. An entirely unremarkable person. She smiled, slightly, at the bartender as she was handed a drink. A worn smile. A haggard smile. That revealed two abnormally large front teeth.

He fought hard to keep the remains of his drink down. He swallowed and then coughed, hard, at the realization of who this was. He waited, briefly, until she had almost finished her drink before flagging Joe down, telling him to put her next drink on his tab. He ignored the comment from Joe, and sat back on the stool, nursing his own glass of scotch.

He gave a nod of acknowledgement when she looked at him in surprise. He made no move to initiate conversation though. It was her perogative. He gave a small snort. Twenty years prior and he would have never even considered this. But twenty years prior and the world had been a different place. Twenty years prior, he had been a different man.

And the girl could prove useful. She could prove very useful. That was, of course, if she was willing. She was getting up from her seat after all, and she was heading to the stool next to him. That had to be a good sign. A mumbled hello later, and she sat there staring at him. "Do I know you?" She finally asked. He gave only a noncomittal shrug and stared at his drink.

"Perhaps." He could feel eyes boring into him. "Perhaps you do. Perhaps you have known me once, but do not any longer. Perhaps you have never met me." She looked at him inquisitively.

"Perhaps I have had too much to drink, but I'm afraid you're not making much sense." He smirked slightly and he could see recognition dawn across her face. "Or perhaps you didn't look full enough of yourself for me to recognize you." He gave a slight snort of laughter.

"Ah, but you do." She nodded.

"It's been a long time, professor." It was his turn to nod.

"Has your life been going well Miss Granger?"

"As well as a life locked away in an office can go. And yourself?" He took a long pull off his glass.

"My life has been going as well as it can." He looked at her. "That's not to say that it is full of inconveniences that make it that much more unbearable." The puzzled expression only lasted for a fraction of a second.

"But there's not much you can do about it." He smirked again.

"Perhaps there is." She would be valuable, if the years of being stuck in the grind of office work hadn't addled her mind. She had been intelligent, powerful, even he had to grudgingly admit that. And she would be useful.

"What do you mean?" She asked, and he fought back the snort. She had always been intelligent, true, but she was never quick to catch on to subterfuge and subtlety. A Gryffindor to the bone.

"Perhaps we should find someplace else to talk about this, you never know who may be listening." With that he got up, the black jacket seeming to swirl around him as he paid for his drinks and walked out the door. He knew she would follow.


	3. A Brave Reply

Oh, look, another chapter. Enjoy, tip your waitress, and leave a review.

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She looked at the door for a second before pouring the rest of her drink down her throat and following him outside, ignoring the wink and lewd grin from the bartender. He was waiting for her just outside the door. Damn the bastard for knowing that she would follow. She couldn't help it. He had piqued her curiosity. "So." She said simply, falling into step with him as he walked.

"So what?" He replied, walking hurriedly along. The night was cold and damp, and no doubt he wanted to be inside. So did she. She could go for a nice warm fire and a blanket.

"You said that perhaps we-" Her words were cut off with a sharp yelp as a hand darted out and grabbed her upper arm tightly.

"I said that perhaps we should leave there." The tone was bitter, acidic. She recognized it well. There was no doubt that this man was one and the same. The same pale face, now more creased and haggard looking. The same large nose. The same greasy, stringy hair. And most importantly, the same horrid personality. "Foolish chit. Wait to speak of such things."

She gave a slight huff. She was being discrete. She always had been. She had, after all, survived the almost two decades since. It hadn't been easy, but she'd done it. One didn't get by in these days without being discrete. She wasn't going to give up the life she had carved out for herself out of her own stupidity. She had never been stupid. Naïve, perhaps, but not stupid. But she followed along obediently. "If you don't mind sir, where exactly are we going?"

"My home." He disappeared down a small street, and she fought to find him in the dim light. The nearest streetlight had long since burned out. She didn't feel safe here. Each house they passed looked more and more like it was about to tumble off of it's foundation and on top of her. She wasn't sure if anyone had lived here in a long time.

He paused in front of house, unlocking a door that creaked as he opened it, seemingly ready to fall off the hinges. The house inside was bare, basic. A threadbare couch was there, along with a chair, and table that looked ready to give out. And the books. That was what caught her eye more than anything, was the books that lined the walls, there had to be at least a thousand crammed along the walls, stacked on top of each other as if shoving and jostling for a position.

He sat down heavily in the arm chair, gesturing to her to sit on the couch. He reached down to retrieve a bottle of scotch and a glass, offering it to her. She declined. She didn't want to think of when the glass was washed last. It wasn't that the place was dirty, but it felt neglected, uncared about. "Are we finally in a place where we can talk?" She asked him, and waited for him to finish the drink to give a response.

"Yes." She rolled her eyes. "Ah yes, always so patient. You have not changed at all since your time in Hogwarts, have you Miss Granger?" She stared down at the couch, and the bare cushion poking its way through. "Except that now you are forced to live without a vital part of your life, are you not?"

"Was it really vital?" She asked. "It was a convienience, yes, but it is necessary for survival?" She watched him as he methodically took a drink and lit a cigarette. "You know those things will kill you." He chuckled. She didn't think she had ever heard him laugh before.

"As will life. There is very little on this planet that will not kill you. As for magic-no, it is not necessary for survival, but we evolved. We were given an extraordinary trait. Are born athletes treated any differently? Born singers? Actors? Musicians?" There was a pause as he looked at her. "Geniuses? No, they all get by without being ostracized. Without being removed from society." Another pause. He had certainly not lost his flair for the dramatic. "Without being killed." He sat back.

She knew him far too well, had sat through too many of his lectures to let the overly dramatic affect her, but he had a point. "Besides, Miss Granger, I do remember you as being quite the activist in your school days. You campaigned for rights for house-elves did you not?" She nodded. "And yet you sit by and watch idly as your own friends get killed. Why?"

She sat there thinking about it. "Because." She said simply. "I was afraid." He sat back in his chair and stared at her through the smoke.

"A very brave reply."


	4. Good Boy

A/N even more, do enjoy

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He sat on the edge of the bottom bunk, feet firmly planted on the floor, hands tangled into the sheets to keep him gripping on to reality. He was loosing it. That was it. It was settled. People didn't just make things move for no reason. He didn't just make his coat come to him because he didn't want to get it. Things didn't just suddenly move without being pushed. No he had to have gotten up to get it without remembering it.

And weren't blackouts a sign of mental illness? He hadn't chosen to be here. Maybe he was just cracking under the pressure. He was here because he didn't know what else to do with his life. He didn't know what he wanted to do. So he took the easy way out. He joined the military. It was easy to buy into the recruitment posters, after all. They promised so much. They promised him uni when he got out. They promised him a job for life otherwise. All he had to do was obey.

He could do that. He could follow orders. But maybe, maybe he wasn't cut out for this. It was hard, getting up at five, eating in less than twenty minutes, spending all day on patrol, coming back at nine, eating again, a class on something, and then finally crawling into bed again nearing to midnight. And the things he saw in the streets as he patrolled...

He shook his head to clear it. He hadn't believed it until now, all the rumors he had heard about things. He had heard stories of rogue officers, who would abuse their privileges. There was no way to stop it though. The best he could do was just ignore it. Keep his head down and be the same as everyone else. Be a normal soldier.

And normal soldiers did not make things move across the barracks through sheer force of mind. He wasn't going to be different. Different was bad. Different would get him discharged. Different would get him expelled. Different would get him killed. And as aimless as it was, he liked his life.

No, he was going to be what he was supposed to be. He was going to be the same. One by one his fingers let go of the sheets, and he stood, smoothing out the wrinkles so that one could never even tell that he had been sitting there, and put on his coat, giving his appearance one last check. He had a patrol in ten minutes, being late would mean discipline.

Discipline was bad. Discipline would just make him crack more, if he was going crazy. But he wasn't going crazy, he was fine. He'd just been working too hard, he hadn't noticed himself get up to get his coat, that was all. He pulled his hat on, and ducked his head down, blending in. He was good at keeping his head down. He wasn't going to stand out. He was going to keep on being what he was supposed to be. He was going to keep on obeying. He was a good boy.


	5. Paper Pushing

He kicked his feet up on the desk, staring at his reflection mirrored back at him in the shined black leather. It wasn't that he was vain. He just wanted to ensure that he looked good. After all, appearances were everything in this world. So long as he appeared to be on the good side, so long as he appeared to be what he claimed to be, no one would ever question it.

He stared at the television that sat on the wall across from his desk, without watching it. It was just the news, as it always was. He never needed to watch it. He knew what the news would be every day. After all, the government controlled it. And working for the government, he knew full well what would be said. He knew what lies would be fabricated. He knew what truths would be omitted.

Things like that would be gone over in meetings. Briefings. And as a high ranking member of the Ministry of The Interior, he was often present, if only as a gopher for the minister. The meetings were the only times he bothered to pay much attention at all to his job. Mostly, he was a figurehead. It was what he had been born to do. What he had been bred to do. Sit at a desk and sign things and look important.

Technically, his job on paper was to supervise emergency preparation measures. But those measures were decided by the minister, and administered by his subordinates. He merely sat behind a desk and ensured that all the proper paperwork was filed, that all the "i"s were dotted and all "t"s crossed. And of course, sit and listen to meetings where he was largely ignored except to serve as the coffee boy. And he did not mind.

After all, this was the sort of job he had been groomed for. He had been left a rather considerable sum of money, and he had no need to work, but he was here out of a more dire need. The need to survive. It was easier to get by without scrutiny if one was a high ranking member of the party. He was afforded certain luxuries that the lower class was not. That the common folk were not.

By sitting here and appearing to care about the party, by being here and being a leader, he could escape the interrogations. He could pretend as if he fit in. He could act as if he was normal. And no one would know the difference. No one dared question a party leader.

He did care about the party though. He believed in what they were trying to achieve. They wanted to be powerful. It was an admirable cause. They wanted the nation to be as strong as possible. Sometimes, you had to remove impurities. They just didn't know that rather than being an impurity, he was the next step in evolution. But they would learn that. He would teach them.


End file.
